Restless in LA

By Robin Finn

It was an innocent online flirtation…until it wasn’t…

Alexandra Hoffman thinks she has it all together. She lives with her work-obsessed husband Jason and their three challenging children in upscale Los Angeles. She never meant to “friend” her old boyfriend, Matt Daniels. She hasn’t seen him in twenty years. But as Alex’s fortieth birthday approaches, she finds herself re-connecting with Matt online—and re-reading her college journal, which details their intense connection and unresolved ending. But Alex’s hands are full with the kids, one of whom she just can’t help, no matter how hard she tries.

Lonely and alienated by the helicopter moms, and from Jason who is never around, Alex’s flirtation quickly moves from on-line to real-world. Alex realizes—too late—that she cannot trust herself. When she meets Matt for dinner, the attraction is undeniable. And when he touches her face, it’s electric. As her life spirals out of control, she clings to her free-spirited life coach, Lark, to make sense of the mess she’s made. But Lark’s advice is clear: Alex must confront her past and find the courage to face her future, even if it means risking everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkspell Publishing
• Release date: Dec 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997621273

Book preview

Prologue

I didn’t mean to friend him. I don’t even like Facebook. Other people’s perfect lives annoy me and put me in a bad mood. I have this fantasy of starting Real Book, an online site where people post their truths: my husband and I haven’t had sex in weeks, my daughter got a D on her math test, my son is irritating the hell out of me with his bad attitude, whatever. I just think it would be funny. But I digress.

It wasn’t my intention to friend him. I know: The road to hell is paved with good intentions. But I’m not claiming my intentions were good. Or bad. I didn’t really have any intentions. Or, if I did, they were subconscious, which seems to be a theme of this whole fucked-up story.

So I typed his name into the search bar and took a drag from my cigarette. The kids were at school and the small room at the back of the house, which doubled as my office, was quiet except for the ticking of the Lucite clock my life coach accidentally left behind after our last session. She’d left it on the shelf, wedged between my collection of kid art: lumps of clay splashed in rainbow colors, pencil drawings of our family, painted picture frames with various toddler faces poking out, and a little round Buddha statue with man boobs and an overstuffed sack across his back. The lady in Chinatown told me he signified abundance. I told her I was looking for creativity but she said he signified that too, so I bought him for twelve bucks. When I got home and placed him on the shelf next to the kid art, I noticed the sticker at the bottom read $10. So much for abundance.

I pushed aside the linen curtains in my office and morning light streamed in from the open window. It was that lazy morning light, the kind that illuminated the white specks of lint that clung to my black Target yoga pants. The kind that showed finger smudges on my laptop screen and reminded me that the E on the keyboard was nearly worn off. The spine was still white but the horizontal lines were missing. A slight breeze blew in the room and sent cigarette smoke in a wave across my desk. The ash was getting longer and, although my nail polish was pale, I could see it was chipped. I needed a manicure.

It had been twenty years since I’d seen him. Let sleeping dogs lie, I told myself. But I was curious. I wondered what he looked like. Was he gorgeous in that middle-aged sort of way—kind of Richard Gere in Pretty Woman? Or had he gone hipster with tattoos and black-rimmed glasses? I waved the smoke out of my face and ashed into the Dixie cup on my desk. I noticed water stains on my yoga pants. Someone once told me to add laundry detergent before putting the clothes in the washer but no thank you. I couldn’t handle standing at the washing machine with a basket full of dirty laundry, just waiting for the detergent to emulsify or whatever. Patience was never my virtue.

I took another drag from my cigarette. The Lucite clock tick-tick-ticked. Fuck it. I hit Enter.

Chapter 1: Three Days Earlier

The psychiatrist said every family has a barometer child, the child around whom the family revolves, and ours was seven-year-old Ryan. Not like we didn’t know this. Not like our other kids didn’t constantly point this out. Ever since Ryan was little, he’d been moody, impulsive, temperamental, and physical. It was kind of a weird relief when, earlier this year, he was officially diagnosed with severe ADHD, anxiety, and features of ASD/AS. This meant he had Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder and displayed signs of an Autism Spectrum Disorder/Asperger’s Syndrome. It was a lot to grasp. I knew he struggled. But there was a part of me that hoped he’d outgrow it. That we’d wake up one day and everything would be fine. He would be fine. My husband Jason used this magical thinking all the time. Ignore it and it will go away was his motto. He said Ryan was just sensitive. But in my heart, I knew something was wrong.

The psychiatrist prescribed a cocktail of a stimulant, an anti-depressant, and a mood stabilizer for Ryan. The potential side effects I read scared the hell out of me: sleep problems, irritability, suicidal thinking, heart problems, and this condition where his skin could burn off from the inside. Jesus, I thought. Really? My son is seven years old; am I really going to do this? I thought about my other kids, twelve-year-old Natalie and five-year-old Ben; would I do this to them? But the doctor said parents who didn’t believe in medicating their kids didn’t have kids who required medication. Maybe. But it was still hard.

I was a moronic optimist. Some people say doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity. I call it moronic optimism. To me, it’s a life skill. So when Ryan started the cocktail, I thought maybe this year would be different, smoother. But just weeks into second grade, things got rocky. One day at recess, Ryan’s best friend Trevor told him he needed a break. He said they should put their friendship on hold. They’re in second grade—clearly Trevor had been coached. But his mom, Cyndi, never said a word.

Cyndi and I were friends. Or, at least I thought we were. She knew how hard Ryan worked, how hard we all worked. I helped her out when she had meetings or her sitter cancelled or her husband was out of town. I didn’t mind. Ryan had so few friends and I was grateful for her son. Then suddenly, after three years, their friendship was over. And, apparently, so was ours. When I saw Cyndi at Back to School night a few weeks later, she walked right past me. I stopped her and said, Hi! I’ve left you a few mess— but before I could finish she took off, saying, I’ve been so busy. We haven’t spoken since.

The worst part is, there’s nothing I can do. I tried to tell Ryan he has to move on but he can be like a dog with a bone—once he sinks his teeth into something, he won’t let go. The doctor calls it perseverating. I call it heartbreaking.

***

Mom, Ryan said over his dinner. Do you think Trevor forgot about me? He was eating a giant bowl of spaghetti and forking it up at lightning speed. About half made it into his mouth and the rest splattered onto his blue basketball shorts. Do you think I’ll still get invited?

You get what you get and you don’t get upset! Ben shouted through his missing front teeth.

Shut up, baby Ben! Mind your own business! Ryan reached over and whacked his brother on the wrist with his fork.

Ouch! I hate you! Ben shrieked.

You’re a baby!

Ben, mind your own business. Ryan, let’s talk about this later. I grabbed Ryan’s chair and pushed it away from Ben. Use your fork properly or I’ll take it. I kept my voice steady and gripped the back of Ryan’s chair, noticing that his chewed-up cuticles looked like a war zone.

Just as the boys turned back to dinner, Natalie entered the kitchen. Ben held up his wrist indicating where Ryan had poked him and Nat immediately ripped into him. Oh my god, Ryan, you hurt him again? What’s wrong with you?

Shut up! I hate you! Mind your own business—MOM! Ryan barked.

Mom! Natalie yelled. Ryan told me to shut up!

Everyone calm down! I stared at each of my children. Let’s have a nice dinner!

That’s it? Natalie said, holding up her hands in frustration. Why does he, she pointed to Ryan, always get away with it?

Natalie! We were calming down until you walked in. I crossed my arms and faced her. She wore knee-high plaid socks with purple Converse sneakers. After a long day at school, her denim shorts and One Direction T-shirt were immaculate. Purple clips pinned back her perfectly coiffed brown hair. It was hard to believe that she and the two boys were related; neither of them cared about their appearance and Natalie never left the house without a shower and a swath of Bath & Body Works Raspberry Melon lotion applied to both arms.

Me? Are you kidding? It’s him! It’s always him!

Ryan jumped up and smacked his chair into the table with such force that his bowl of spaghetti overturned and red sauce and pasta strings exploded everywhere. I’m not going to school tomorrow! he shouted. Natalie hates me! Everyone hates me! It’s ALWAYS my fault!

Ryan, wait— but before I could finish, he stormed out of the kitchen, the stomp of his sneakers echoing across the hardwood floors.

Are you happy now? I asked Natalie. I bent down and picked the bowl off the floor, wiping the red sauce into half moons, and blotting them up, spot by spot. I didn’t want to unleash my frustration at my daughter, even though it needed to be unleashed. There was no one to blame. Except, of course, myself. I clutched the sponge and kept blotting. Was the medication cocktail making things better, or worse?

I’ll help you, Mommy. Ben said, grabbing a paper towel.

Natalie stood frozen, watching. Mom, I didn’t mean to—

I know. I stacked the dishes in the sink and left them there. Do me a favor, when you’re done eating, get Ben ready for bed, okay?

I walked toward the sound of feet whacking into wall and tried not to overreact and blame everything on the medication. It helped, it did, but it was a deal with the devil. All the drugs had side effects, some of which intensified the problems they were supposed to fix. Anxiety meds could make him more anxious and ADHD meds could make him more aggressive. And some days it was impossible to tell. Was he hungry? Tired? Anxious? Or was his latest meltdown due to rebound side effects from the drugs that were supposed to help?

What’s going on, Ry? I opened his door. Ryan lay facedown on his bed, his sneakers kicking the dark blue wall.

I hate Natalie—and Ben too!

I sat down on his plaid comforter and laid my hand gently on his leg.

They never get in trouble at school.

That’s not true. I sighed. Did you get in trouble today?

Trevor hates me, he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He’s never gonna be my friend again. He buried his head in his navy fleece blanket. I strained my ears to hear him. When we were at recess, he had the ball and it was my turn and he wouldn’t give it to me. So I grabbed it—it was my turn!—and I pushed him. But I didn’t mean it!

Did he fall down? I asked gently.

He lifted his head and nodded. His angry scowl and tear-stained cheeks masked the pain and frustration that had become the hallmarks of his life. "I got benched for a week. No one’s going to play with me now! The coach called me a bad sport in front of the whole class!"

I studied my son in his T-shirt and basketball shorts, his sneakers still smacking the wall. He was seven years old with red-rimmed eyes, a clenched jaw, hands balled into fists, and cuticles bitten to the quick. The shame he felt was a dagger in his heart and in mine, too. I grabbed the hilt with both hands and tried to pull it out.

You made a mistake, I said, rubbing his shin. "You are not a bad kid. You made a bad choice—that’s it. Remember what the doctor said, ‘Good kid, bad choice.’" I lifted the blanket and tried to make eye contact but it was hard, so hard to get him to look at me. I met his gaze long enough to see tears in his eyes and the rage that lay beneath. Is that what boys do to pain and hurt, I wondered, turn it into anger? Natalie would have been beside herself had she been singled out like that. But not Ryan. His angry eyes told a different story, the story of how much he hated himself, hated being different. And he was smart enough to know how very different he was.

You’re a good boy, I said, stroking his back. You’ve always been good.

Nuh uh! He cocked his leg and kicked the wall so hard his framed poster of Luke Skywalker shook. Trevor doesn’t think I’m good! He hates me! He didn’t even invite me to his birthday party! And Cyndi doesn’t think I’m good! He slammed his fist into the bed, strangling a hoarse, hiccupping sound as he fought back tears. She could’ve invited me! She’s the mom!

But I knew that didn’t make a difference. Mom or not, experience taught me that when it came to hyperactive, impulsive kids, most parents pointed fingers before they walked in your moccasins or whatever the expression was.

I leaned over and kissed Ryan’s head, letting my lips rest in his silky little-boy hair.

You’re doing the best you can, Ry. Everyone makes mistakes. Sometimes people forget that...even grown-ups.

I wished I could suck out his pain like snake venom. I heard Ben calling my name but I didn’t answer. I rubbed Ryan’s back, feeling his body cuddle into mine, pouring in the antidote as best I could. Just before he drifted off, I nudged him and he changed into his pajamas and crawled under the covers.

I love you, I said. He nodded and snuggled into his pillow. I turned off the light and stood in the darkness. Some things I just couldn’t fix. No matter how hard I tried.

***

Natalie was working on her laptop at the kitchen table. I sat down next to her, hoping to talk but she was deep in concentration, clicking through photos of me.

Ben’s in bed, she said, without looking up.

What are you doing? I asked, peering over her shoulder.

"I’m making an iMovie for your birthday; Dad thought it was a great idea. I’m calling it: Alex Hoffman: Then and Now. It’s going to be a slideshow of your whole life—isn’t that great?" She re-clipped the barrettes that pinned back her dark hair.

This had to be the hundredth iMovie Natalie made in her young life. She spent hours online, selecting images and downloading music, but I had to admit they were masterpieces. She used graphics and transitions and even inserted video clips. I told my husband it was the modern version of scrap-booking.

Sounds terrific, I said, lying through my teeth. I wasn’t excited about my fortieth birthday. It had been a crappy year and I wanted to usher in my forties quietly. But the kids had pitched a backyard fiesta with surprising teamwork, arms around each other, all three pleading desperately. I couldn’t turn them down.

Dad emailed me a bunch of pictures of you, she said, but they’re all recent. She pulled up a few photos and then glanced sideways at the phone sitting at her elbow. To show how old you really are, I need pictures of you from college and, you know, from when you were young.

Sure, Nat, I said.

"I know there’s a lot of old albums in the garage...

Please, Mom. She pressed her cheek against her folded hands and made her best sad-dog face. The movie won’t be good without historical photos."

Historical photos? Who was this kid? Okay, okay, I’ll look. I winced at both the when you were young and the thought of the dreaded hellhole that was our garage.

Our garage was a wasteland of unfinished business. Baby books half written in; plastic boxes filled with clothes Ryan outgrew that Ben would never wear; broken toys needing to be glued, screwed, or thrown away; boxes from my parents filled with mementos; and unmarked paint cans in need of labeling and storage in a cupboard. The garage was a long-term bone of contention between Jason and me. I wanted him to tackle it—clean out the cupboards, put hooks in the walls, move stuff into the rafters—but he never had time. I hated being reminded of things left undone so I avoided going out there like the plague. It stressed me out just to open the door.

Go to bed, I said, leaning in to give Nat a hug that she quickly shrugged off before I hurried down the hall to say goodnight to my Benny boy.

He was asleep with Danny and the Dinosaur rising and falling on his Spiderman pajama top. I leaned over and kissed my little boy, noticing the smudges of spaghetti sauce on his face. When was the last time I sat with him while he took a bath? The last time I helped him brush his teeth? He was happy, I knew, but I was sorry. There just weren’t enough hours in the day. I kissed him on the forehead and went into the bathroom to clean up and turn off the light.

I stooped over to lift the wet towels off the floor and caught a glimpse of myself in the large vanity mirror. At nearly forty, I was the definition of skinny-fat. After three kids, I was small but with cellulite pockets collecting on my thighs and butt—my saddlebags, I thought grimly. Maybe if I went to the gym more than three times a year I’d firm up? That was the thing with skinny-fat, you could pull off skinny in clothes—I had a waist, not-too-saggy breasts, smallish tummy pooch—but naked, well, that was another story. Varicose veins had begun popping up on my thighs and there was a layer of cottage cheese along my backside. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that Jason got home long after I’d retreated under the covers in my gray sweats with the over-loose elastic waistband? My straight brown hair—the grays were well camouflaged by blonde highlights—still came down past my shoulders but the ophthalmologist had recently suggested Botox for my forehead. Fabulous confidence booster that was. I avoided looking too closely in the mirror but consoled myself with the thought I’d recently bought a good concealer.

Might as well get it over with, I muttered to myself as I closed the door and headed toward the garage. I flipped on the fluorescent lights, took two steps inside, and looked around. In a dusty corner, partially hidden by the garage door tracks, was the white cardboard box I’d inherited from my parents when they’d moved to a condo a few years ago. It was still sealed and labeled ALEX HOFFMAN in black Sharpie pen, followed by our address. I climbed over Jason’s golf clubs, through duffel bags of ski clothes, broken beach umbrellas, and other potential deathtraps, and approached the box.

Peeling off the tape, I opened the top flaps. Inside was a treasure trove of pictures that had fallen out of the old-style, gummy-glue pages of the ancient albums my mom had salvaged. I grabbed a handful of pictures and sorted through them. They were all jumbled in time: my graduation from UCLA, sitting on a Big Wheel in a pink party dress, at a resort in Hawaii with Jason on our first trip together. God, that was a great trip—the volcano hike and the ocean views and endless hours playing backgammon over martinis. Natalie will be thrilled, I thought, as something at the bottom of the box caught my eye.

My heart pounded. Pink tulips danced on a pale blue background. The corners were frayed and part of a heart-shaped leaf had worn off but it was unmistakably the journal I’d kept during my junior year abroad. My hands trembled as I lifted it out and thumbed through the pages. Suddenly, something fluttered to the ground. I bent down and my hand jerked back as if stung. There he stood, in front of the Thames River wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a black leather jacket...Matt Daniels.

I remembered the day vividly: Matt and I played a game of Ultimate Frisbee in Hyde Park and then headed over to our favorite pub to celebrate. Afterward, we walked hand-in-hand along the Thames. The sun was setting and the light had turned a rich shade of yellow-gold. I stopped at a bench to take out my camera and positioned him in front of the river with the light behind my shoulder. His green eyes gleamed playfully.

***

You should be very proud of yourself today, Mr. Captain-of-the-Winning-Ultimate-Frisbee-Team, I teased.

Oh, I am, I am, he agreed, nodding his head and pushing his unruly black hair out of his eyes. What do you think would be a fitting victory prize? he asked with a wink.

Try to keep your dirty mind in check while I take the picture, I said, attempting to focus on the foreground. The light is perfect and you look adorable.

I framed him standing along the river’s edge. The wind ruffled his hair and he reached up and brushed it off his forehead before flashing me a smile. At six feet tall, he was built like a runner, with muscular legs and calves, and arms that could carry me up two flights of stairs when I over-optimistically consumed one too many pints of Guinness. His dark, wavy black hair, straight nose, stubbly cheeks, and full-lipped mouth—always a mischievous grin playing at the edge—formed an incredibly attractive picture, but what completed the package and made him nearly irresistible, were his eyes. Those piercing green eyes stunned me and left me unprepared and breathless. I was an over-achieving college junior from UCLA studying literature in London on an honors scholarship and Matt was a twenty-five-year-old budding filmmaker who’d left New York for a job with a British production company. We’d literally bumped into each other on a London street the day I’d first registered for classes and had been inseparable ever since.

Say cheese, I joked and snapped the photo. I’d just set the camera down when he lunged at me, knocking me off balance and pinning me to the bench.

I’ll say anything if you let me take you to bed, he quipped, biting my neck and sliding his cold hands under my sweater.

Get off me. I craned my neck to the side, frantically surveying the path for onlookers but flushed with heat from the feel of him against me.

Alex, he moaned, taking my hand and rubbing it up and down the button fly of his faded Levis. I’ve been watching your ass in those jeans all afternoon and I want a piece of it...bed be damned. He lifted up his head, his hair smelling faintly of Drakkar cologne and freshly cut grass, and glanced around. No one’s around for miles, he added hopefully.

We’re in public! I hugged my jacket around me. People might see...

He got up and hopped behind the bench, away from the lamplights.

Come here, he gestured, daring me with a rise of his eyebrows.

My feet followed as if by rote. Kissing me, we slid down onto the gravel. He stretched out on top of me, quieting my nervous opposition by sliding his tongue between my lips. His large, warm hands slipped inside my black sweater and underneath my bra, teasing my nipples mercilessly. I squirmed against him, breathing heavily and swatting playfully at his hands.

With one quick movement he unfastened the four buttons of his fly and pressed my hand against his swollen bulge.

Feel me, he said, looking directly into my eyes, emboldening me with his gaze.

He was a hypnotist, and under his spell, I did things I’d never done before, never even dreamed of doing. I was a nice girl, no public hand jobs and certainly not sex. But there I was, huddled in a dark corner of a park, with my lover lying on top of me and my underwear soaked between my legs.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought to myself, but I couldn’t resist. He raised himself up while I unzipped my jeans. I watched myself wrangle them down below my thighs as if I was someone else. I kept thinking this wasn’t really happening, even though I knew it was. He shrugged off his jacket, lowered his pants, and covered our backsides as best he could. The jeans pushed low across my thighs, constricted the width my legs could open but he was undeterred. Using his knees, he pushed apart my legs. I wiggled to dislodge a stone stuck beneath my back as he grabbed my hips and entered me hard. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit down on my lower lip to keep from moaning and attracting the attention of any passersby.

Hey, he said. Don’t go anywhere. He ran his hand along my forehead and brushed aside my bangs.

I can’t believe we’re—

Sshh, he said. Open your eyes and watch. He leaned up, making some space between our bodies.

I...oh—

I’d lost the power of speech. I did as he said and lowered my gaze, watching him slide in and out of me. Pleasure emanated out from the satisfying ache between my legs, all the way to my toes, my head, my whole body. His musky scent mingled with the cold air and his mouth pressed against mine while he kissed me over and over and quietly murmured, You taste so good, and, I love to make you come, until I turned my face away to gasp and squeal. He pulled up my sweater and reached behind me to unsnap my bra with one quick flick of his finger. His mouth was warm on my breasts as he bit and teased me, which only intensified the sweet throbbing between my legs. I was going to come so hard with the gravel crushed into my back and blades of grass prickling my cheeks, and Matt leaning over me, pushing so deep inside me that I wanted to cry out. Nothing I’d ever experienced prepared me for how free I felt—how reckless and bold—to let him take me like that, in the open air, listening to his dirty talk, watching him slide in and out of me, knees forced apart, bare bottom resting on twigs and pebbles.

Hold on to me, I gasped, digging my fingers into his hips. He crushed me close against him while my body shook with a tingling sensation that made my toes curl. He quickened his pace and raised his head skyward, pumping into me vigorously. I watched his face in the fading light, his eyes lost in concentration, a rebellious lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. The heat rose again inside me but I’d already let myself go. I couldn’t bear it again. Oh, Matt, go, I begged as he moved in urgent rhythm. He came with a barely stifled groan and collapsed on top of me. We lay there for a while, satisfied and spent, panting and chuckling. I could feel my cheeks burn.

I love it when you blush, he said, propping himself up on an elbow and looking at me as I lay in the grass next to him. His jeans were pulled up but unbuttoned at the top. I could see the happy trail leading from his navel downward.

Why? I asked, feeling embarrassed and knowing my flushed cheeks gave me away. Because you make me do things any nice girl should be ashamed of? I got up and brushed small pebbles off my legs as I wiggled back into my jeans.

No. Because you look like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. It turns me on, he said, flashing his green eyes and looking sexy and self-satisfied—the cat that ate the canary.

Oh my god! I better get out of here before you decide you want another go. I jumped up and re-fastened my bra, smoothing down my sweater and shaking out crumpled leaves from my hair.

Matt got up and stood behind me, brushing dirt off the back of my open jacket. He turned me around to face him and tucked a wayward strand of long, brown hair behind my ear. For a moment, we stood staring at each other. Then he broke into a wide smile that traveled up from his lips to his eyes, as if a light had been turned on from the inside and couldn’t help but illuminate

Reviews for Restless in LA

[robynelee · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I have heard the phrase "authentic voice" for some writers, and that description kept returning to my thoughts as I read this very engaging novel. The narrator felt as if she were someone I might have been friends with at some point. The blending of past, present, and blogging kept my attention and interest throughout. I hope to find other novels by this author in the future.